Dynasty
by Painted Smile
Summary: Alex Rider; teenage spy for the M16. Artemis Fowl; genius criminal master-mind. AlexArtemis SLASH. WARNING: some spoilers.


Disclaimer: Not mine

Credit for the pairing goes to Ever1, who wrote the first Artemis/Alex fic I ever read, and quite possibly one of the first in existence.

* * *

And then it would start again. The incessant tapping as the red high-heels clicked their way down the rows. The flicking noise as the kid in the third desk of the fifth row played with the bands on his braces. The snuffles from the fluey girl down the front.  
  
Alex leaned back in his chair. He scanned the paper in front of him for the millionth time. The silence of the exam room was starting to grate on his nerves, as it only highlighted the small noises. Like the heels. And the braces. And the snuffles. He knew this test. Alex was a science geek. And a maths wiz. And a sports nut. He was pretty much an all-rounder.  
  
Glancing at his watch, Alex had to stifle an almost audible groan. Another half-hour left. He'd already filled his spare papers with scribbles and doodles, and there was no space left for more. He was about ready to resign himself to catching up on lost sleep.  
  
Actually, that didn't seem like such a bad idea. The rhythmic noises were almost soothing now that he thought about it. Tap, flick, sniff. Tap, flick, sniff. Tap, flick, sniff. Tap, flick... beep, beep, beep!  
  
Alex started, as the loud noises emerged from his pocket. Every head turned to stare at him, as he hurriedly pulled his phone from his pocket. The tiny screen read: Message received. Read message?  
  
"Mr Rider?" came the sharp tones of Mr Daniels. "I hate to interrupt your social life, but I'd appreciate it if you'd turn that off!" The balding teacher's jowls quivered. Alex glanced hastily at his enraged face, saved the unread message and turned his phone off.  
  
"Mr Rider," Daniels hissed quietly, as most of the students turned back to their test. "Believe you me, if I see so much as a hint of that machine at school again, it will be confiscated!"  
  
Alex tried to force a submissive expression on his face, but for some reason, it just wouldn't come. The idea of cowering before the wrinkled, flabby man glaring at him almost reduced him to helpless laughter. He felt like telling Daniels 'I am a teen spy. I work for the M16. I stopped Point Blanc, Stormbreaker, Skeleton Key and Eagle Strike, and I'm sure as hell not intimidated by you.'  
  
But of course, that would blow his cover. "Yes sir." Alex said quietly, trying to sound as contrite as possible. He slipped the now-silent phone back into his pocket. And settled down to wait out the remaining half-hour until the end of the exam.  
  
As the students streamed out of the dingy exams hall, Alex waited at the door for his friend, Matt. Finally the blonde boy emerged. Matt was a dreamer. His head was firmly engulfed in the clouds at all times, but occasionally he would display a startling intelligence and flashes of clear insight. Whereupon he'd promptly return to his dreaming. The pair walked in silence for a few minutes, as they threaded their way through the crowded corridors to their lockers. Suddenly Matt spoke up. "What was the beeping?" Alex blinked, surprised his absent-minded friend had noticed.  
  
"My phone." He said, taking said device out of his pocket and turning the power on.  
  
"Who's it from?" asked Matt, as Alex navigated the phone's menu to the saved text message. He didn't recognise the number of the sender, yet it was disturbingly familiar. Without answering, he pressed Read message.  
  
COME TO THE BANK ASAP  
  
Alex scowled. Now he knew the number. There was no bank. The M16 wanted something again. Well they weren't getting it, whatever it was. Alex had sworn to himself that he'd never work for them again. A teenager should worry about zits, sex and grades, not about whether the world needed saving again.  
  
"It's nothing important." Said Alex firmly, as he turned off his phone. Something in his friend's voice warned Matt not to comment. Matt was faced with the realisation (one of many) that he really knew nothing about Alex. He lived with his American house-keeper. His uncle had died in a car-crash, and his parents had either died too, or had done a runner on their son. As well as that, there were Alex's prolonged absences from school. Matt knew better than to believe any of Alex's flimsy lies about them. But at the same time, he had no idea what the reason behind them could be. It just made no sense. Maybe he leads a double life, Matt thought, and instantly he was spinning off on a tangent, wondering how James Bond always managed to appear so immaculate.  
  
Alex, on the other hand, was fighting to escape his own darker thoughts, and struck up a conversation on the test. And so Matt's fly-away thoughts were once again diverted.  
  
Throughout the remainder of the day, Alex couldn't stop his thoughts from flicking back to the M16's message. What did they want? He'd told them, on no uncertain terms, that he wanted nothing more to do with them. Granted, he'd said that several times before, and it never stopped them, but he'd thought this time they'd listen to him. Apparently he was wrong.  
  
As he neared home, he spotted the slim figure of Jack Starbright waiting for him. The young house-keeper had a worried expression on her usually cheerful face. Alex knew what she would say before she even opened her mouth. "The... bank... called. They want you to come in and see them."  
  
Alex nodded, accepting the information silently. There was a clear question in Jack's eyes. "Not out here," he said quietly, slipping inside the house. Jack followed him as he stalked into the kitchen, dumping his schoolbag as he passed. Jack, picking up on his mood, remained silent. That was something Alex liked about her; she always knew when to talk, and when to be quiet.  
  
Alex sighed, sinking into a chair in the corner as Jack leant against the counter. "Will you go?" Jack's question cut the strings of silence that hung between them. Alex opened his mouth to answer with a vehement no, then slowly shut it again. Because he knew what the M16 would do. The same things they had all the times before. Use Jack's visa against him. Jack would be forced back to America if he refused them. Frustration bubbled up inside him. Hadn't he done enough? Hadn't he earned his freedom from them?  
  
Jack was still watching him. He knew she hated it when he went on their missions, but he also knew she desperately wanted to stay away from America, although he had no clue why. Slowly, Alex said, "I'll go, just to see what they want."  
  
It sounded hollow to them both. They knew that if he went, he'd end up working for them. But, although Alex wouldn't admit it, even to himself, he was getting bored of his life. He was having trouble fitting back into the muddle and melee of school. He was restless.

* * *

Alex leaned back in the hard chair in Alan Blunt's office on Liverpool street. He remembered the events following his last visit. The Scorpio sniper had shot him as he left the building.  
  
He had imagined that his parents were standing over him. But of course, they had been nothing more than the delusions of a dying mind. Alex had blacked out, but thankfully had been rushed to hospital in the nick of time. The bullet had pierced his chest, just missing his heart. He wasn't sure exactly what had been done to save him, and honestly he didn't want to know. There was still a scar marring the skin of his chest.  
  
Alex's attention was pulled out of the past by the entrance of Alan Blunt, head of M16. Alex had always regarded Blunt with a carefully measured amount of distrust and animosity. The man had manipulated him so often, so cleverly, and so devastatingly that Alex didn't completely trust a single thing that came out of his mouth.  
  
Following Blunt was Mrs Jones. Alex felt the expected rush of guilt at the sight of her. After his failed attempt to kill her, her subsequent forgiveness, and the gift of the honest truth about his father, his respect for her had shot through the roof. She gave him an encouraging smile.  
  
"When we last met, Alex, you were shot by a sniper." Blunt stated, well, bluntly. "A few hours after you were taken to hospital, a call came in from Corey Saunders. I trust you are familiar with the name?"  
  
Alex blinked. Saunders was one of Britain's most famous and well-respected journalists. Jack read his column and articles every week with an almost religious fervour.  
  
"As well as his career in journalism, Mr Saunders is an established art collector. A few weeks before the sniper attack, he attended an auction in London. He bought several works, including what he was told was an original Da Vinci sketch. However several weeks later it was exposed as a fake. The auctioneers have already been investigated, and were utterly appalled. It is believed that their ignorance is genuine. On closer inspection, it was found that half a dozen other paintings and sculptures are fakes. Collectively, they sold for something like thirty-five million US dollars.  
  
"They came from several sources, all of which have been found to be false identities. However, we firmly believe there is one person or organisation behind this."  
  
Alex nodded to show he was keeping up. His next question must have shown in his eyes, because Mrs Jones replied.  
  
"What we want you to do, Alex, is to go undercover, again. We have a list of suspects. George Voulen, Earnest Brown, Rinehart Schwarz and Jacob Evans. Each one of them is capable of pulling off something like this. But we already have agents on each of them. There is another... possibility however. Have you heard of the Fowls, Alex?"  
  
He nodded again. Of course he knew who the Fowls were. They were legendary criminals, racketing on the wrong side of the law for generations. Fowl Senior had gone missing a few years back, and had recently been recovered. He had then sworn off crime.  
  
"But haven't the Fowls gone straight?" he asked.  
  
"The father has. The son, Artemis Junior, hasn't. He's your age. He has the highest IQ in Europe, has already stolen, embezzled, laundered and illegally minted millions of pounds, and has never once been charged, let alone convicted."  
  
"They why isn't he on the suspects list? Why is he only a possibility?" asked Alex immediately.  
  
"Because... well, to be honest, the fake isn't up to Artemis the Second's standards. His fakes are very nearly impossible to tell from the real thing. However, there is a slim chance. We want you to go undercover to his school, and try and find something. Anything, really."  
  
This is sounding more like a bad James Bond flick every minute, Alex thought. "And if I refused?" he asked aloud. Blunt shrugged.  
  
"Then you don't go." There was a tone of underlying satisfaction in his voice. Alex was hooked, and they all knew it. He had been from the moment he walked in the door.

* * *

Artemis Fowl was not having a good day. Instead, he was having an exceptionally bad one. First, he had returned to the pig sty of an educational institution that called itself St Bartleby's. Then he had been told that, due to a clerical error, they had neglected to inform him that this year, the school would be enrolling girls. And finally, he was apprehensively told that, because there were currently not enough of dormitories for single rooms (with the addition of females), he would be having a room-mate. It turned out to be a good thing the man was cowering behind his desk, because Artemis's glare would probably have set fire to his over-sized wig.  
  
Artemis stalked through the corridors, followed by a nervous functionary with his luggage. Although his face maintained the customary blank expression, inside he was fuming. Never in all his life had he had to share his space with a stranger. In fact, Butler was the only one he had ever shared a room with, and he hardly counted. Artemis did not want to share his dorm with some loud-mouthed, testosterone-pumped teenager, who would probably play rock music all night and invite his friends over. Artemis had always considered his room to be solely his territory. It was his safe- house, his refuge from smell and noise and people.  
  
This was not acceptable. He would have Father call the headmaster immediately. He was not paying £40,000 per year to have his privacy annihilated. There must be another option.  
  
Just as Artemis entered his room, followed by the functionary, (who carefully put down the luggage and ran) the wall phone rang. Puzzled, Artemis answered. It was Father. Well, that was convenient.  
  
But as he listened to his father's voice, he felt a sense of growing doom. Not only had his father just been told about the girls and the roommate, but he was delighted by it. He kept saying it would 'bring him out of his shell'. Artemis hung up with a depressed sigh. The boy would arrive in bare hours, if he wasn't here already. He doubted there was time to formulate a plan.  
  
Slowly, Artemis began to unpack, looking at the rooms with distaste. It was the standard Bartleby's dorm. A sitting room, en suite and bedroom, all tastefully furnished. At least they've given us two beds, Artemis thought, trialling this 'optimism' idea. It didn't suit him, and he slipped back into pessimism. They might as well not have, though.  
  
Because Bartleby's had always had big beds, they were customarily positioned in the centre of the room, and took up almost all of the floor space. Bartleby's was not about to spend a fortune on brand new, smaller beds. However, so neither boy, (nor, subsequently, their influential families) would feel slighted, the beds had to be exactly the same. This meant that the two beds were crammed so closely together that the gap between them was virtually non-existent. Artemis fervently hoped that they built new dormitories soon.  
  
No, he was not having a good day.

* * *

Alex couldn't help but be impressed by the sight of St Bartleby's. After passing through an ornate (and very secure) gate, Ciardo's black limousine glided up along a long, curved driveway, flanked by green lawns and carefully cultivated roses.  
  
Alex's cover persona was Alex Ciardo, son of a European businessman who'd made his money off manufacturing fortune cookies. Thomas Ciardo, a bachelor, was delighted to be involved with the M16. He considered himself and amateur detective, and believed his work had finally received it's due credit. Alex's sudden appearance would be explained away. The concept was that he was the result of an 'indiscretion' on Ciardo's part.  
  
The buildings themselves were made of weathered grey stone. The main building where Alex knew classes and administration took place, loomed ahead of them. The driver, a young M16 agent, jumped out and opened Alex's door, giving him an encouraging smile.  
  
As a worker moved forward to take Alex's bags, the boy strode confidently through the main door. There were no classes on the first day, as everyone was still getting settled. Alex spotted a group of girls in painfully new uniforms standing awkwardly together. He recalled that the school had only just become co-ed. He slipped an easy smile on his face and approached.  
  
One of the girls, a tall pale redhead, looked up and whispered something to the girl beside her, who smiled coyly at Alex.  
  
"Hello, I'm Alex. I'm new." He said as he neared. "You too?" asked a blonde dryly.  
  
A bossy brunette shoved her way through the group towards Alex. "I'm Sarah," she informed him loudly. "This is Abigail, Lucinda, Ainslie, Peta and... what's your name?" she asked disdainfully. The short girl at the back, thoroughly cowed, replied "Tamara." Quietly.  
  
Alex nodded and smiled.  
  
"Somebody's coming." Remarked Abigail, the blonde. A short man was indeed hurrying towards them, an ingratiating smile on his face. "Hello and welcome. I am Principal Guiney."  
  
Within a few minutes Guiney had them in his office, busily assigning them rooms and handing out timetables. Alex got the feeling that Guiney didn't normally handle this himself. He knew why he was doing it now too. He recognised Ainslie. She was the prime-minister's daughter.  
  
A knock came on the door, and a boy with wild black hair wandered in. He looked so out of place with the restrained surroundings that Alec liked him on sight.  
  
"Hey, Mr Guiney. Listen, about the rooms, can me and Dave Kilroy swap so I can go with Mike?" he asked hopefully.  
  
Mr Guiney smiled wryly. "Zacharias, I am fully aware of your relationship with Michael, and I feel that putting you in a room together would just be too much temptation."  
  
Zach sighed. "Well, it was worth a shot." He turned to leave, before Guiney called him back.  
  
"Could you show Alexander to his room? His luggage has already been taken. Room 116, with Artemis."  
  
Zach's eyebrows shot up, but he nodded. As soon as they left, he whistled. "That's harsh, sticking you with the Ice Prince. He's evil. Hot, but evil." Zach shot a glance at him. "I'm gay, in case you hadn't worked it out. You ok with that?"  
  
Alex blinked, and nodded. "Yeah, I kind of guessed. Are you always so abrupt?"  
  
"It's good to be up-front about it. Avoid any nasty assumptions." Zach said with a shrug.  
  
"Why's he evil?" Alex asked, curious about exactly what Artemis's reputation was. Zach thought for a moment.  
  
"Well it's just... the way he is. You'll see. By the way, are you straight or what?"  
  
"Umm... straight." Alex replied. Zach nodded. "It's a bit of a waste." He said, shooting an appreciative glance at Alex. "Well, here you go." He said finally, stopping in front of a dark wooden door with '116' in brass numbers on the front. "Good luck," Zach said dryly. "You'll need it."  
  
Alex watched as the curly-haired boy walked away. Surely Artemis couldn't be all that bad? Yes, he was a criminal, but he was also a teenager. But I should know better than to judge by age, Alex thought. He carefully opened the door. It revealed a small living room, inhabited by a matched pair of beige couches. His bag was sitting on the floor. Alex shut the door behind him, and the sound drew out the other occupant of the suite. Alex tried a smile as he caught a glimpse of Artemis. If he had to be friends with a crook, he might as well get it over with.  
  
A very pale, raven-haired youth leaned against the door frame. It was very much an alpha-male position, and should have looked absurd on the slim figure, but somehow it seemed to fit.  
  
"Artemis Fowl?" he asked, although of course he knew the answer. "I'm Alex Ciardo."  
  
Artemis's first impression was of cleanliness. Everything about this Alex Ciardo was clean and loose, from his movements to his voice. Artemis had always despised dirt, so he supposed it was a good thing.  
  
The boy was tallish, a little more so than Artemis himself. His fair hair was, in Artemis's opinion, in need of a cut, as it came to a window's peak on his forehead [1]. A pair of warm brown eyes smiled at him.  
  
Artemis nodded in response to Alex's introduction. He felt no further communication was required, but Alex seemed to think otherwise. "So... which bed's mine?" he asked, walking to the door of the bedroom where Artemis was stationed. He raised an eyebrow. "Didn't give us much space, did they?"  
  
Artemis shrugged wordlessly, and moved to perch on the left bed. Taking the less-than-subtle cue, Alex picked up his luggage from the sitting room floor and transferred it to the right bed.  
  
Artemis watched silently as he unpacked. The quiet was unnerving. Alex was tense. The unspoken words hung between them like thread on a loom. You're not wanted here. Alex felt himself despairing of his mission already.  
  
"You're father makes fortune cookies, no?" Artemis said suddenly. Alex nodded, startled. Something about this pale stranger was pushing him off- balance, and he felt awkward and clumsy beside the precise equilibrium of the other boy.  
  
As Artemis rose from the bed, Alex noted the unconscious, lithe grace with which he moved. If Alex hadn't already known that Artemis was a master- mind, he would have guessed by now. His instincts, which had served him so well in the past, were screaming at him; Artemis was dangerous.  
  
"How about yours?" asked Alex casually. Artemis remained expressionless.  
  
"He's a business man." He replied fluently.  
  
Artemis was uncertain. It seemed, so far, that his room-mate might be bearable, if he kept quiet. However, although he would never show it, he was uncomfortable. He supposed that the next few days would be similarly awkward for both of them. Especially once Alex learnt of his reputation.  
  
Good, thought Artemis firmly. Then he won't bother me.  
  
The two boys looked blankly at each other for a few moments. Finally a knock on the door broke the strained silence. It was Zach, ready to take Alex on a tour of the school.  
  
Artemis remained where he was for a minute, after Alex left. The quiet settled into the suite and he was acutely aware of the sound of his own breathing. For a moment, an orange-jellylike substance flickered before his eyes.  
  
Artemis blinked, a puzzled frown crossing his features. Orange jelly? Where had that come from? Disturbed, Artemis stepped into the sitting-room and opened the slim black laptop on the table. As it loaded, Artemis flicked the power switch on a small machine, which whirred into life. It began systematically investigating the suite for microphones or hidden cameras. After several minutes, the readout showed clean.  
  
Artemis gave his vampire smile, and his fingers flew over the keys.

* * *

Alex sat quietly, listening as Zach chattered on to his boyfriend, Mike. On hearing his name, Alex glanced up.  
  
"You're stuck with the Ice Prince? Sweet." Mike said with a grin. Zach stared at him.  
  
"Sweet?" he asked incredulously. Mike shrugged.  
  
"Yeah he's a lost cause, but you've got to admit he's hot as all hell." Zach glared at him as he hastily added, "But no personality at all. Not my type." Zach appeared appeased by this, and the conversation continued.  
  
Alex thought about what they'd said. He called up Artemis's face in his mind. Pale, pale skin, high cheekbones, an almost pointed chin and smooth black hair. A very pixie-like face, in a masculine sort of way. Like a cat.  
  
Although he wasn't attracted to Artemis in the slightest (how could he be? He was straight) he could kind of see their point. If he wasn't always scowling or looking blank, Artemis's face could be very appealing.  
  
They passed an open courtyard. Mike and Zach nodded knowingly at the girls filling it.  
  
"Must be their little introduction speech." Zach said. "I can't get used to these girls all over the place. I thought there'd only be a few, at least for the first couple of years."  
  
"Bartleby's has a great reputation." Alex remarked. Zach shrugged.  
  
"Yeah, I suppose so."

* * *

The two faces watched each other cautiously across the breadth of the two beds. All lights would automatically switch of within minutes, yet neither wished to make the first move.  
  
Alex gave a mental sigh. This is stupid, he though, unaware that Artemis's thoughts were echoing his, albeit in a far more eloquent form.  
  
With a click, the room was plunged into darkness. Under the cover of said darkness, both boys rolled their eyes, their thoughts a mirror-image of one another's. Simultaneously they crept into bed, each laying gingerly, as though the other would reach out across the beds and bite them.  
  
As his mind began to shut down, Alex briefly ran through the events of the day. Images of Zach, Michael, the girls and Bartleby's flashed through his brain. Finally Artemis's face appeared before his mind's eye. His last thought before sleep conquered him was that Artemis had the bluest eyes he'd ever seen.  
  
But sleep was avoiding our dearest blue-eyed Artemis. He had very rarely been at this close-quarters with anyone. The sound of Alex's deep, rhythmic breathing was inconstant and unexpected. It was like suddenly having an analogue clock moved into his room. The sound was distracting.  
  
He found himself listening for the breathing, counting the seconds between each breath. Artemis had always been fascinated by the simple act of breathing. It seemed obscenely wrong that something so vital, so intrinsic to survival should be performed so easily.  
  
Every breath was like a grain of sand, trickling, tumbling, seeping from your hand. Or grains of time.  
  
His mask was falling. Artemis could feel it. This was why he needed his own room. Because it was hard to hold up his impervious, indifferent mask at night. It was so, so hard. But Alex was asleep. Surely it was safe now to let go.  
  
But he wasn't at all sure he was willing to. Because, with the loss of his mask, other things would surface. Artemis's insecurities and fears might rise to the top like so many black and silver bubbles from the depths of a great, still lake.  
  
Artemis never mentioned these fears. In daylight, he never even thought about them. But sometimes at night, they would rule his world. There were good nights. Nights, in which the mask fell silently, crushing the tiny bubbles beneath its weight. But Artemis knew this would not be one of them.  
  
With a thud that only he could hear, the mask dropped, and sunk beneath the dark waters of his subconscious. There was a pause. And then the fear set in.  
  
His mother: could he have done more for her in her insanity? Butler: how many sacrifices had he made? And how many more would he have to make? Father: suffered so much to become legal. Did Artemis have any right to cheapen his forfeit?  
  
The guilt, the fear, the doubts chased themselves around his head and gnawed at the thoughts flickering through the shadows of his brain.  
  
And then a sound penetrated his terror. A concentrated gust of air; a breath. Desperately he clung to the sound. He waited, enduring, until the next breath, and when it came, the demons were banished. But again they returned.  
  
Perhaps if the sound were louder, Artemis's scared brain insisted, they would stay away for longer. So Artemis moved closer. He rolled over a slight dip in the soft surface, and curled up to the side of the sleeping warmth. All that mattered was the breathing. All that mattered was the breathing. All that mattered was the breathing. All that mattered was the breathing. All that mattered was the breathing. All that... mattered... was... the...

* * *

There will undoubtedly be a massive wait between this and the next chapter. Sorry. Apart from that, please review.   
  
[1] A window's peak is a style that's hard to describe. Some people have it naturally, others don't. 


End file.
